


Marks Upon His Body

by Winterstar



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Civil War (Marvel), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 15:44:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5933812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/pseuds/Winterstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Please don’t leave me, Bucky,” Steve whispers, shivering even in the heat. He wonders if his own needs should outweigh Bucky’s – maybe, just maybe Sam is right. Maybe Steve’s doing this for himself and not for Bucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marks Upon His Body

**Author's Note:**

> For anon - here's your Steve/Bucky story! Hope you like it!

“Hope you know what you’re doing.”

Steve startles, and he shouldn’t – he should be on high alert at all times. He’s lucky it’s Sam. He peers over his shoulder and offers a crooked smile. “Course I do.”

Standing at the entrance to the small hole in the wall apartment they’re hiding in, Sam shakes his head. There’s no glint of humor in his eyes or his expression. He’s tired, exhausted from the run, the race to hide and stay hidden away from all of the forces against them from Hydra to Stark. “I’m starting to think the answer to that is no.”

Steve inhales but doesn’t turn around. He’s got the one burner on the stove that works lit and he’s warming up some milk. It’s three in the morning, he’s shirtless, and he figures Sam must have heard what happened from his room across the hall. He doesn’t want to have this conversation right now; he’s needed elsewhere. “Sam, it’ll take time.”

“It always does,” Sam says and steps into the kitchen. 

The apartment is at least fifty years behind the times. The refrigerator is barely large enough to hold enough food for two people, forget three of them – especially since two of them are super soldiers in a way. Doesn’t really matter – they don’t have a lot of funds to feed themselves these days. It’s getting harder to stay under the radar of the world. Steve’s lucky that Sam agreed to stay with them, decided to help out and support them. He cannot expect it forever though.

Grabbing onto the counter, Steve murmurs, “You can go home. I’m sure Stark can get you amnesty.” 

Sam edges toward the counter and leans in to get a good look at Steve. “He do that to you, again?”

Steve takes the pot off the burner – he doesn’t want to scald the milk. “He had a nightmare.”

“He’s got seventy years’ worth of PTSD. He’s the longest POW in history. He needs professional help,” Sam says. “I don’t care how much you love him, that can’t help him. It’s not a miracle. Some people with PTSD take years, decades to recover.”

Steve faces Sam and his friend gasps. Steve knows what his bare chest looks like; he’s well aware of the dangers that sleeping with the Winter Soldier entails. They’ve been hiding out for months, all the while Steve’s tried to help Bucky through the hell of his recovery. 

“Sometimes the recovery is worse than the event-.”

“No,” Steve says. “This isn’t worse. It can’t be worse. He’s told me some of what he’s been through. I can’t abandoned him now Sam.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Sam says and points to the bruises along Steve’s chest, the choke marks along his throat. Most of the bruises are old, some are fresh, brand new from tonight. “How long are you going to be able to do this? How do you think it makes him feel once he comes out of the fugue and realizes he’s hurt you again?”

Exhaling, Steve shakes his head. He glances around the ramshackle kitchen with its dented metal table, the Formica counter tops, and the olive green appliances. The vinyl tile is peeling off the floor in the corners and the sink has rusted stains along the drain. It’s a pit but it’s worlds better than some of the places Steve lived before the serum.

“I can’t leave him. I won’t leave him.”

“Man, I am not asking you to,” Sam says. “But you have to agree that maybe someone with more experience would do better, someone less attached to the situation.”

Steve holds back his reply; he wants to bite at Sam, yell at him because that’s the whole reason he wanted Sam here with him. Sam reads his expression – Steve never could conceal his thoughts – he could never play poker.

“You know, I would try if I could. He doesn’t even want me around. He tolerates me at best,” Sam says.

“He’s getting better at it,” Steve says. But Sam’s right. Bucky won’t have anything to do with any one that might be part of the establishment. He doesn’t trust anyone but Steve. He doesn’t interact with anyone but Steve. It’s driving Steve to exhaustion. Sam’s right in so many ways. The stress disintegrates Steve’s fragile grasp on hope because the progress Bucky’s making is painstakingly slow. 

“Maybe, but he could do better,” Sam says. “You have to think about it. You want him to recover, you’re going to have to consider all the options, Steve. All of them.” He looks Steve up and down. “And do it before he kills you.”

Leaving without further words, Sam shuffles out of the kitchen into the small den they turned into a bedroom. Steve looks at the milk – it’s too cool now to do anything with so he leaves it on the stovetop and heads back to the bedroom. The floor creaks as he steps through the doorway and Bucky jerks in the bed.

“Hey, just me,” Steve says in a low soft tone, and then crosses the narrow space to the bed. 

Bucky lies on his side, looking away from Steve toward the frosted glass of the window. The building used to be some kind of factory at one time. It has weirdly shaped rooms and odd windows. It is not conducive to healing in Steve’s opinion but hiding in the middle of Asia will lead to strange places that are called home and safe. 

Steve knees onto the bed and then settles down against Bucky. The sheets and pillows smell of sweat and fear. The musky scent of sex hangs in the air as well. Wrapping an arm around Bucky Steve shadows the back of his neck with kisses. “I’m sorry. I didn’t – the milk-.”

“I heard,” Bucky says and Steve stiffens. After a long moment, Bucky says, “He’s right. One day either from a flashback or a nightmare, I’m gonna kill you, Steve.”

Steve touches Bucky’s bare hip, and then glides his hand up to his metal fingers. “No, it won’t come to that.”

“It will, and you’re stupid if you don’t think so. I nearly choked you to death this time.”

Swallowing down the phantom memory of the metal around his neck, Steve says, “That’s an exaggeration.” He can’t deny that waking up struggling for air with Bucky lurching over him, hovering and gripping his throat terrified him. It hadn’t been the first time.

“I don’t want to hurt you anymore,” Bucky says.

“You’re not going to; you’re getting better,” Steve says and Bucky turns over. His eyes are dark and his hair lank around his face. 

“You need to leave,” Bucky says. “If I hurt you, I’ll never forgive myself.”

Steve cups Bucky’s face in his hands, searching his face. He only finds fear, and that pallor of self-loathing that colors everything that Bucky says and does these days. Bucky has become Atlas in many ways, an Atlas with a world of burdens and horror on his shoulders that he can never drop. It will be his encumbrance forever.

Steve will never let him do it alone. “I’m not leaving you, I don’t care what you say or do. If you try and leave, I’m just going to hunt you down again.”

“I’ll turn myself into Stark’s goons,” Bucky says.

Fear plunges downward and curls tight in Steve’s belly. “Don’t say that, I – can’t – don’t say that.” He closes his eyes and this time Bucky kisses his eyelids and it feels like the first time. It feels like all the years between them drain away and they are in the tiny apartment in Brooklyn. It doesn’t matter that Steve’s different now, it doesn’t matter that Bucky’s different. The years have worn them, used them, and consumed what they had to offer the world. But this – between them – stays the same. It’s home; it’s perfect.

“Please don’t leave me, Bucky,” Steve whispers, shivering even in the heat. He wonders if his own needs should outweigh Bucky’s – maybe, just maybe Sam is right. Maybe Steve’s doing this for himself and not for Bucky.

“Not on your life,” Bucky says and covers Steve’s body with his own. Nothing else matters that night – nothing else could. The marks on his body in the morning are different but they still mean the same thing. 

Steve’s never letting go. Not ever.

**Author's Note:**

> I normally write Stony, but heck I ship Steve with a slew of people. Why not Bucky, right?
> 
> My [tumblr](http://winterstar95.tumblr.com) where you will find updates on my writing, and all kinds of Marvel, Star Wars, and liberal stuff....


End file.
